Never Forget
by Fic Fairy
Summary: Holby City. ConnieOther. It's September 11th 2001 and Connie's in New York with an old friend while Michael's back home in England. Some swearing, plus 9.11 themes.


Never Forget

**Never Forget**

I feel like I'm dreaming.

Everything seems surreal, nothing seems real, but then its been that kind of day.

I'm sitting on a bed. Anton's bed. I'm tired, and drained; my head hurts from crying. My heart is utterly broken. All I want is to be held.

I get my wish.

Anton emerges from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, his skin still glistening from his shower. He smiles slightly,

"That feels better."

I know what he means. I've never needed a shower as much as I had the one I'd just taken. It had been a relief to wash the dirt and grime away.

From the day. And from Michael.

Anton moves to sit beside me, wrapping his arms tightly around the white fluffy robe I'm wearing. I rest my head on his shoulder, enjoying the closeness, but only momentarily. I look up, and then gently kiss him.

I expect a reaction, a response; after all we've talked about this. We knew it was coming. But he doesn't kiss me back, just looks down at me, his eyes full of concern.

"Are you sure?"

I know why he's asking. He's asking because he knows me, knows what's important to me. He knows that I don't cheat on my husband.

Didn't cheat on my husband.

I nod, "I'm sure."

And I am sure. Today has changed everything.

_12 hours earlier._

It's not shaping up to be a good day. My head is banging, the result of a well deserved hangover, which in turn is the result of a particularly spectacular drinking spree. Another knock on effect of said drinking spree is that I'm stood at the door to the hotel room of one of the people I respect most in the world, too embarrassed to knock but knowing I have to because I owe him one hell of an apology.

I take a deep breath – in for a penny, in for a pound – and then knock.

He answers the door, and I'm impressed by how unhungover he looks considering he was matching me drink for drink. I clear my throat nervously and force myself to look him in the eyes as I speak, although truthfully its the last thing I want to do.

"Anton. Last night. I'm sorry. I don't know what came..."

He cuts me off, laughing softly as he finishes my sentence, "... over you? - I'd say it was probably half a bottle of Scotch. Don't worry about it Connie. Come on in."

I follow him into his room, still determined to apologise for my abhorrent behaviour the night before, "But I am worried about it. I cried. A lot. I bored you ridged with all the gruesome details of my fucked up marriage."

He's been watching CNN and he mutes it as he turns to face me, "Connie, please, I said its fine." He looks me up and down, obviously taking in what a complete wreak I look, "Coffee?"

I nod, and sit down on the edge of the bed, watching as he sets about making my drink. I don't feel like things are fine though. I'm still dying inside every time I think about the night before.

"I told you Michael screws around."

Again he turns to face me, his expression neutral. If I'm exasperating him he's not letting it show. "And as you may or may not recall, I told you last night that that news wasn't exactly new to me."

I did recall. In true Anton style he'd not minced his words, reminding me that Michael had never really taken marriage vows seriously, which was how I ended up being wife number two within weeks of him divorcing wife number one.

"I told you about the threesome."

Once again, there's no notable reaction from him, his expression remains neutral, as if we're talking about the price of a pint of milk, and not the fact that my husband forced me into a threesome and played amateur porn director as I had sex with the other woman. He comes to me side and takes my hand, squeezing it reassuringly, "That paints him in a bad light, not you. Will you please, stop worrying."

"But I kissed you." I blurt out, moving along swiftly, so I don't have to dwell on the words, "I kissed you in an elevator and then completely freaked out about it." I'm not sure completely freaked out covers it. The kiss seemed like such a good idea at the time. I was so angry at my bastard husband for continually fucking around behind my back, and kissing the guy who had at one time been his mentor seemed like a good way to get over. Until I'd done it, and then been consumed with guilt at what I'd done, and proceeded to burst into tears – not for the first time that night – and sob hysterically on his shoulder.

He lets go of my hand, and for the first time, not just that morning but actually in all the time I'd known him, Anton looked slightly embarrassed, blushing slightly as he returns to making my coffee, "You were upset. Forget it. I won't tell you again."

I fall silent, not wanting to push the point any further, instead turning my attention to the muted television. And that's when I see it, flashing up in a red bar in the bottom of the screen.

NEWSFLASH. REPORTS COMING IN OF A LIGHT AIRCRAFT HAVING CRASHED INTO THE WORLD TRADE CENTER.

Stunned, I rise to my feet, almost without thinking, and move to the window without saying a word. I have no idea what to expect, I don't know if I'll see anything at all, but I have to look. Call it morbid curiosity.

I see it instantly. The smoke in the sky in the direction of Manhattan. I open my mouth to try and get Anton's attention, but no sound comes out. I'm literally struck dumb by what's happening.

This is something big. Huge. And we're practically in the middle of it.

We were in New York for a conference. Anton had played a hand in organising it, and asked me along to present a paper. I hadn't really wanted to go – I'd been having a busy time of it at work, and also I didn't like going away from home because I knew what went on when I wasn't there. I'd seen the long blonde hairs in the sink, and the used condom wrappers in the waste paper bin. It wasn't that Michael was trying to hurt me, he was just sloppy and didn't care. But, in the end I decided to do it. It was an honour to be asked, and, also, I knew Michael was pissed off that I had been. He and Anton went back a long way, and I think he assumed that he'd be his first choice, so it came as a dint to his ego that the 'little lady' had been asked instead.

And actually, I'd been glad that I'd gone. It was a great chance to network, especially since I'd been there with Anton and he knew just about everyone. And in between the networking I'd managed to see a few of the sights – The Statue of Liberty, The Empire State Building – all the usual tourist stuff.

That said, I missed Michael. And I was worried about what was going on back home. He tells me I shouldn't worry, that its just about sex for him, but I can't help it. I was 'just sex' for him once, and I became something more – I always fear that that might end up happening again. And I guess that was what was on my mind the night before when Anton and I had gone for drinks after dinner, hence the fact I drank more than I was used to and ended up making a prize bloody idiot of myself.

Not that particularly mattered any more. There were bigger things going on in the world.

I finally find my voice, and tell Anton what's happening. He abandons my coffee, turns the sound back up on the TV and we sit down on the edge of the bed to watch the story unfold. Once I see the pictures, and get over my initial shock, my thoughts, as a doctor, are of the casualties.

"We should go and help."

Anton shakes his head, "We're not licensed to work here, no hospital would let us, not with way the compensation culture is here."

I can see his point, but that doesn't stop me wanting to help. I'm a doctor, that's who I am, what I do and I was determined to find a way to do it. "We could go to the scene. We could do first aid."

"And get under people's feet. Leave it to the professionals Connie."

"I am a professional!" I argue, but to my surprise Anton doesn't argue back, instead just stares at the TV, a look of complete horror on his face. I follow his gaze to the screen, my heart sinking as I realise the cause of his horror.

The second plane.  
The second tower.

I'm on my feet even before impact, hangover long forgotten as adrenalin rushes through my body.

"I'm a doctor Anton. I'm going."

He looks at me, still shell shocked, and then slowly nods, "I'm coming with you."

We are in a pharmacy when the first tower falls. We'd decided not to take the car, and walked into Manhattan, stopping at pharmacies en route to gather supplies. We'd both expected to have to load up our credit cards, but it wasn't the case, we are given whatever we ask for at no cost.

As we leave the shop, the image of the tower crumbling from the television clearly engrained in both our minds, Anton grabs my arm,

"Do you still want to do this? The other tower could fall too."

"We won't get too close." I reply, sounding a hell of a lot more confident than I feel, "The police won't let us get too close, not now one's gone. We'll be safe." Even as I say it, I know it sounds ridiculous. How can the police possibly know what 'too close' is. How can I possibly say we'll be safe? Another plane could come. Anything could happen. The day itself has already proved that.

That said, I'm not about to change my mind, not when people need us.

Anton nods, "Fine. But no unnecessary risks. Your husband would never forgive me if anything happened to you."

At his mention of Michael I stop in my tracks, putting the box of medical supplies I hold down on the ground, and groping around in my pockets for my mobile, "I have to ring him. He'll be worried. I mean he'll know about this right? He'll know." To my horror, my eyes fill with tears, as I imagine Michael in his office, watching on TV, wondering about me, where I was, whether I'm safe. "I have to speak to him." I pull my mobile out and dial.

'The Network Is Currently Busy. Please Try Later.'

I turn to Anton frantically, desperate to borrow his mobile, but he's already one step ahead of me, "Connie, look at what's going on. The networks are going to be jammed. You'll have to speak to him later." He obviously notices how shaken I look because he puts down his own box and wraps an arm around my shoulder, "Are you sure you're sure about this? We can go back to the hotel."

I think back to the news reports I've seen. The planes, the fires, people jumping from windows.

"No Anton, we can't."

It just wasn't an option.

In my head, I believe I'm equipped to deal with whatever greets us there. I'm a doctor, a good competent doctor, who never lets her emotions get in the way of the job. I've worked at the heart of many disasters. I think I can deal with anything that's thrown at me.

Which is why, it comes as a shock when we start to see casualties and I realise I can't cope. A man sees our supplies and comes towards me, holding his arm, which is cut with a jagged piece of glass impaled within. Its nasty, but I know what to do, and yet, I can't do it... I freeze, haunted by the look in his eyes, not even being able to begin to imagine what he's seen.

Anton sees what's happening, but says nothing, instead just stepping in to deal with the casualty himself, but when a second person comes up to us, a woman with burns, and I still do nothing, he grabs my arm and pulls me to face him so he can look me right in the eyes,

"Constance." He doesn't raise his voice to me, but then Michael says he never does to anyone, he doesn't need to, its commanding enough without volume, "You told me you're a doctor, so start acting like one. Please." He's firm, and hard, but when I nod shakily, both his expression and tone soften, "Good girl."

I set to work, and quickly patch the woman up, taking my cues from Anton and talking gently to her as I treat her. Its not my usual style, I leave the bedside manner routine to my nursing staff, but today I don't have a nursing staff, and in any event, this not a 'usual' way to be treating patients.

As soon as I'm done with one patient, another soon appears, and it becomes clear that we're not going to get any further. We don't need to. There's plenty to be done where we are. It doesn't seem real, its like something out of a film, but still we keep treating people, almost on auto pilot. A man comes up and offers to go for more supplies, a woman from a near by coffee shop brings us flasks of sweet tea. Everyone wants to do their bit.

I concentrate on my patients, and try not to get too caught up in the horror of what's happened. Its not easy, especially not when we hear the rumbling of the second tower falling – in fact, at that point, I have to stop what I'm doing and move to one side to vomit – but having Anton with me helps. I know he must be as shaken as I am, but he never lets it show. He's always in complete control, even now.

It's frustrating that we can't do more due to the basic nature of our supplies. There are people I want to help, but can't. One woman, carried to us by a bystander, dies in my arms. Once again I come close to losing it, but Anton pulls me back and I get back on with the job. We both do.

We're so busy that time passes quickly, and I'm surprised to realise we've been there for hours, when it feels like only one has gone by. People bring us food, but I don't eat. I don't need to – the adrenalin keeps me going, and its only when our supplies have gone and I stop that I realise just how tired and hungry I am.

I fall to the kerb, and Anton comes and sits beside me, handing me a bottle of water, gifted to us by a passerby. As I sip it, the full horror of what's happened truely hits me – the buildings gone, the lives lost, the other two planes we've been told about by people on the street. It doesn't seem real, even now.

I must have fallen silent because Anton reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, "Are you ok?"

I look around the street, the layers of dust, the devestation and find myself remembering the day before. "I was here." I tell him, "Yesterday. During a break in the seminars, I left, and walked this way. I went to the World Trade Centre for a coffee."

He's silent as he digests this fact, and then reaches out and strokes my cheek, "I'm glad it wasn't today."

He's not the only one.

Back at the hotel, my mind turns again, to Michael. Anton wants me to go back to his room, doesn't want me to be alone, and I'm grateful for the gesture but I tell him that first I need to speak to my husband. It's been bothering me all day that I've not spoken to him, knowing he must be out of his mind with worry because I haven't called.

Or so I thought.

I sit on my bed, and pick up the phone, my hands shaking so much that I can barely manage to dial the number. When I eventually manage, it rings. And rings. It rings far too bloody long for someone who's meant to be worried sick about their wife. And then, when he answers...

"Yeah?" He's breathless, I can hear giggling in the background. My heart sinks, but I still can't bare to believe it. Don't want to believe that he could be such a heartless bastard.

"It's me." I say in a tiny voice, that barely sounds like my own, "I'm ok".

There's a brief pause as he tries to get his shit together at the other end of the line. The bitch, whoever she is, gets told to shut up in a low tone that I'm not meant to hear but do. Only then does he respond, "You rang me to tell me that? It's nearly one here. Did you forget about the time difference?"

That does it. I explode. "Do you have any fucking idea what's going on here?" More's to the point, did he really fucking care?

The answer is probably not.

"You mean this thing with the World Trade Centre? Yeah, I know, its been on TV."

I burst into tears again then, I can't help it. The last thing I want is for him to hear me cry, but how else am I meant to react? My husband won't even let the fact I might be dead get in the way of a shag. Thousands of people are dead, one of whom died in my arms and all he cares about is getting his god damn end away.

My tears must shock him because when he speaks again he sounds suitably chastened, "What's wrong Connie? You didn't get caught up in it did you? You're not hurt are you?"

I hang up. But not before issuing a parting shot in response to his last question,

"Would you really care if I was?"

You know how this story ends. Distraught and upset I ended up in Anton's room. He calmed me down with a stiff drink and a much needed hug, and before too long we were planning to sleep together.

Well actually no, planning is the wrong word. That makes it sound like we had a choice in the matter, and we didn't. I needed it , needed to be close to someone in that way. We both did. And it wasn't about revenge, not like my kiss the night before. It was more than that. I didn't want to get my own back on Michael, I wanted to be with Anton.

Because he knew what I'd been through, what the day had been like.

He understands.

And, as I lie here, curled up in his arms, his fingers gently caressing my back, that is what is on my mind. What is worrying me the most. The fact he understands, and Michael never will. Oh, I'm sure once he stops fucking the bitch and sits back to think about it he'll realise that September 11th is a big deal. A world changing event. But that's all it will ever be to him – a 'world' event, pictures on a TV screen. Not like it is to Anton, and to me. To us, its personal. We were here.

"What are you thinking?" He asks, planting gentle kisses in my hair. I like him doing it, but know I shouldn't. Its way too intimate.

I take a deep breath, and tell him exactly what I'm thinking, laying myself wide open to him, "I'm thinking about Michael. This isn't like what he does. This means something."

There's a silence, and then Anton responds, clearly choosing his words carefully, "It does mean something Connie, but nothing that need shake your marriage. Its not like 'that'. Its just because of today."

I know what he's saying, but I think he's being overly optimistic. My marriage has been shaken enough already.

Michael is waiting for me when I arrive back at Heathrow a few days later, full of crappy platitudes, and weak apologies, holding a bouquet of flowers bigger than he is. I want to snub him, but some how I find myself in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

He responds with more platitudes, a cheap reassurance that everything is going to be ok.

He's a moron. He doesn't have a fucking clue, and as I look over his shoulder and my gaze meets Anton's, I know that he knows precisely what I do. Precisely what my husband doesn't.

Things are never going to be ok again.


End file.
